The spillage of sunlight into
the still bowl of a windless
afternoon, humming with insects
and a distant, unidentifiable
clatter. Something comes next,
follows on. Time’s logic, coded
in our very synapses, demands it.
Spillage of sunlight into a
bowl of windless – but for a small
breeze – afternoon. Flowers
purple, blue, bricks bleached grey
and tan. Spillways of
attention, never settled or direct.
Enter SECOND ACTOR, tottering
on chopines, face a horrified mask.
SECOND ACTOR: (strikes pose, right hand on heart,
left hand outstretched, chest heaving magnificently)
Exit SECOND ACTOR. I sold my vote,
recalled the old man, in the election
bazaar. For a handful of magic beans
or a mess of red pottage. Spilled
like ochre cat-sick
on the hem
of the histrion’s